


the Sound of Wings

by smilingcrescent



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: After the battle, Gen, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Mental Health Fest, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Projection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 12:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2068383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smilingcrescent/pseuds/smilingcrescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco can't remember ever properly appreciating his Eagle Owl before, but the way it's leg trembles, the way it presses its beak into his cloak tears at him. Suddenly Draco is obsessed with getting his precious owl treated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the Sound of Wings

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** after the war, Year-eight/end-of-year-seven. PTSD, psychological projection. 
> 
> **Summary:** Draco can't remember ever properly appreciating his Eagle Owl before, but the way it's leg trembles, the way it presses its beak into his cloak tears at him. Suddenly Draco is obsessed with getting his precious owl treated.
> 
> A/N: Gelert is the name of a faithful hound in Wales…
> 
> Thank you to smallbrownfrog for the glorious prompt! Originally written anonymously for (hp-mhealthfest on LiveJournal) (for the Mental Health Fest).

“There just wasn't time.” Pansy Parkinson told him, sadness and cold anger mixing in her voice. “What with those bloody Gryffindors coming in and out of the castle with their searches and demands--”

Draco held out one gauntleted hand to the Eagle Owl, expecting him to lift into the air regally and land there. But he didn't. He just looked at Draco with solemn eyes. “I want you to take a letter.” He told the owl, but he only turned away and shuffled over to a post. Draco stared after him. “No? Maybe later?” 

Pansy sighed. “Draco, who do you have to send a letter to?”

“My owl has been traumatized.” Draco said with dawning recognition. He knew that look, that shuffle. “We need to do something about it, and quick!”

“Really, Draco?” Pansy’s voice never seemed shriller. “You want to do something for the _owl_. I can’t believe this.” She tried to come close.

Draco ignored her. He eventually managed to coax his owl onto his arm, and sometime later into the carrying cage, where after he found himself in the Hospital Wing. He had to wait an inordinate amount of time, and no one paid any attention to his quavering owl. It was pathetic, how little sympathy they showed.

“I’m telling you there’s something wrong with him! Look at the way he keeps blinking. And there! See, he’s trembling,” Draco Malfoy thrust his owl towards Madam Pomfrey, a sincerely concerned look plastered on his face.

Madam Pomfrey nodded slowly. “Yes, he probably was quite disturbed,” she said kindly. “But for now, helping him keep to a regular schedule should be beneficial. You can also try,” she hesitated, and then met Draco's eyes, “talking to him.”

“Talk. To my owl.” Draco frowned, touching a finger to the long feathers in Gelert’s wing. His owl made an irritable noise.

“Yes. You can start by talking about your own experiences... I'm sure your owl will feel comforted to know that you had a similarly hard period.” 

“Now you listen here! You make it sound as though _I_ was traumatized. No, no, no. That's not what I was saying. It's my _owl._ Trapped in the Owlery, listening to the sounds of the battle...seeing his friends, er, fellow owls, be shot down by both sides... My owl.” Draco shook his head. “Fine. I'll go ask... Professor Sprout...” He finished doubtfully. Sprout was not his first choice, but Slughorn hated him and Hagrid... they just didn't get on. Snape, of course would have been his first choice, but...

So he and Gelert made their way to the Greenhouses.

“I don't have time to look at your owl, boy,” Professor Sprout snapped. “Ask Hagrid! Or get a specialist from the village. Move, or help me with these vines-- they'll be very helpful for repairing the burns on the Whomping Willow.”

Humiliated and angry with her response, Draco stomped off. His owl gave a piercing shriek when his cage rattled. Draco chewed his lip. “Sorry, sorry... all that noise...” Draco sat down, gently lowering the cage. He opened the door in case his owl wanted to come out. Together they stared into the Dark Forest. 

Draco sat there for what might have been hours, not moving, waiting for his owl to make the next move. Behind him, he heard the sounds of the volunteers rushing about Hogwarts, clearing away the rubble and debris. The sounds of shifting stones and shrubbery, the wind through the trees echoed, recreating the sounds of the battle. With it came the images of the Death Eaters and the giants, spiders and all those students. Now, with the shadows coming from the forest, the dappled sunlight streaming through the clouds all conspired to make the view unnecessarily eerie, Draco thought. He shivered and shifted uncomfortably.

“So this is it, is it?” He asked sourly. “I take you to the Halfbreed Giant, and he tries to fix you. I'm not confident he can, but...” the owl gave a derisive hoot. “...but I don't know what else to do.” 

His owl only looked at him. 

“Best get on with I, I suppose.” Draco muttered. 

Knocking on Hagrid's door was one of the hardest things he'd done since coming back to Hogwarts. When Fang began to bark, he thought his heart would fly out of his chest. Poor Gelert was shrill with worry, trying to escape the place.

So when Hagrid opened the damn door, he screamed, “You nearly scared my owl to death!”

“What’ve you got here?” Hagrid said, his big gruff voice softer than Draco remembered, his giant hands still by his side. “What’s ‘is name?”

“Gelert.” Draco replied crisply. “Not that it’s anything to _you._ ” 

Hagrid only hemmed a bit. “Good name, Gelert.”

Draco waited for Hagrid to have the decency to ask what the matter was. When he didn’t, Draco found himself saying, “He starts at sudden noises, he won’t come to hand, and he’s avoiding company. Do something.” 

Hagrid looked at something, his black eyes fixed on anything but Draco. “You been exercising?” 

Draco snorted indignantly. “I just—he usually takes care of himself.” 

“Why don’t you supervise him? He needs to fly, to hunt. Try in the quiet hours, mind, and see that you protect ‘im from those noises. That ‘n a bit of dragon’s liver for a week should do ‘im summat good.” Then Hagrid shifted like a big goon, and the door opened a bit wider. “Come in then. Have some tea and we’ll watch Gelert’s reactions, ay?” 

Draco shifted awkwardly, trying to figure out how to politely refuse that offer; he wanted that dragon’s liver, after all. He finally said, “Er.” 

Hagrid raised bushy eyebrows. “Well, then. Perhaps another time.” 

Draco walked away, muttering, “No time like the present…” and threw his arm out, launching Gelert into the air. He jogged slowly after, hardly thinking anything else as he watched the regal form soar. _Tomorrow,_ he thought, I’ll bring my broom, and we’ll fly together. He held the cage gingerly. 

As the hour drifted by, Gelert finally cried. Draco smiled thinly, panting with exertion determinedly thinking about nothing in particular.

* * *

The next day, Draco stole into the kitchens, only to find the liver waiting for him in a neatly wrapped parcel. He took it without hearing a word from the elf, and raced up to the Owlery. 

Gelert looked at him with large, sorrowful eyes, and Draco held out a gauntleted arm. 

“I’ll find us somewhere quiet.” He said imperiously, and sped out of there. “Here.” He said some minutes later. “Out of the way of foot-traffic and low-lives.

“Yes…none of the fighting would have taken place here. Deep in the castle. I suppose you want to know what happened?”

Gelert hooted.

“Well, Potter brought the Dark Lord in. Didn’t bother giving himself up until _after_ so many people died. He was hiding too—it seems they just barely managed to keep him from getting killed. After that, well, no one cared about anything. Spells went everywhere. That giant couldn’t stop his cousins from throwing bits of the castle around, so…that accounts for the noises you heard, wouldn’t you say?” When he finished, Draco was surprisingly tired. Drained even. 

He tore open the parcel and transfigured a knife to cut up the liver. Then he watched Gelert eat the soft fleshy stuff, and looked away. 

When he was done, Gelert hooted again. There was quite a lot of liver left, and Draco got a brilliant idea. “The Slytherin owls.” He breathed, and ushered Gelert back onto his arm, practically flying back into the Owlery.

Gelert clung like glue, then sped off erratically. It took a while to coax him back, but that’s exactly what Draco did.

* * *

Draco brought liver to the owls every day for a week. After that, the house elves only had a letter—Draco couldn’t call the poorly penned thing a proper invitation, after all. He stared at the thing. _Why_ did Harry Bloody Potter gotten word of his Gelert?

As he watched Pansy’s tiny fluffball of an owlet, he spoke at length to the Slytherin familiars. “Stupid Potter. I haven’t even seen his Great Prude of an Owl, and he’s got the nerve to say he’ll talk to me about mine? He probably just keeps sending _his_ owl off for fan mail. He’s not sensitive enough to understand what the owls are going through.” He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.

Gelert shuffled on his perch, but he didn’t fly away.

Draco had asked again for liver, but the inconsiderate elves wouldn’t supply, so Draco sneered his very best at them and stormed off. He was pleased to see that there weren’t any more letters from Gryffindors either,.

After returning to the dungeons for some owl treats he vaguely remembered stuffing under his bed, Draco made his way to the Owlery. He was nearly finished chopping the treats with a cutting charm when someone coughed behind him. Draco swore loudly, and then cringed apologetically at the owls.

Harry Potter, boy savior and one of the few people shiftier than Draco in the crowds, looked just to the left of Draco’s head. He was studying the small flock with dubious interest. Finally, he spoke. “They say you’re avoiding people. That you sit up here for uh, hours, or hide out there somewhere.” Potter waved to indicate grounds. “You, er, ok?” Seing Potter without his friends was odd. Seeing a Potter who wasn’t at the Slytherin’s throat for simply existing was different, too. 

Draco smoothed his robes, dusting his sleeves and front. “I’m caring for the _owls,_ you moron. I’m not _hiding._ ” He thought about sleeping. That’d annoy Potter enough to leave, surely. It was just strange seeing a Potter who didn’t hate him.

“Madam Pomfrey mentioned that you, er, said that your owl was sort of…shell shocked.”

Draco’s eyes snapped open and he whirled to stare at Potter. Darkly. “They were stuck up here without any instructions to flee. Not quite locked in like the Slytherins, but—”

“That’s funny…I thought I remembered some owls in the fight. The House Elves came in the end, you know. I think they knew.” Potter breathed out in one shuddery breath. “I lost my owl, you know. Way before the battle, but,” Draco was surprised to see the regret, the love written on Potter’s face. “…she still died. For me. A lot of people have died for me. You all must hate me in Slytherin.”

Draco scoffed. “ _No_ one is going to say that to your face, Potter. Do you think we want to be thrown out on our arses?” He thought the language would have made Potter scowl, or make him angry enough to shout. The decency he was showing so far was…far more unsettling than their shouting matches ever had been. 

Instead, Potter smiled thinly. “I wouldn’t care if you did say it. So much has happened, and everyone should have the right to talk about it.” Then he was silent, watching Draco feed the owls. 

“It’s time for the evening routine.” Draco said importantly, turning away from the intruder. “Leave us.”

But again, Potter didn’t take the hint. He followed them out, carrying himself like it was time for another fight. 

With the shadow of regret standing there, the evening routine seemed a lot harder. A lot more intense. So instead of going on a leisurely walk around Hogwarts walls and surrounding grounds, it felt more like he was on patrol with Crabbe and Goyle, hunting for Potter to turn over to the Dark Lord. Except all that was left of Crabbe was his owl, a sullen brown creature that would have wasted away without Draco. 

Draco shifted. He knew it was stupid. He didn’t need to sneak around to look for Potter—he was right there, the git. “Sod off already. Just your being here will set poor Gelert off. He doesn’t know the Battle’s over—”

“Malfoy, your owl is calm. It’s you.” 

“Shut up, Potter! Don’t raise your voice!” His heart pounded in his chest. It seemed that all the owls were watching him, waiting for him to act…to obey. To act the perfect servant of the Dark Lord and do what everyone expected of a Slytherin.

“All right. All right. So. Evening routine. You gonna walk around the green houses?” Why did Potter sound so hostile? Didn’t he know that Draco wasn’t—

“Back off.” Draco felt his hands tremble. In that moment, he felt like he was aware of everything. The sound of each pair of wings shifting, the scrape of Potter’s feet on the stone. The way his hand stretched out—

 _fire swept around the Room of Requirements. Fear overwhelmed Draco, adrenaline helping him leap up the heaps of junk in the Room. He had to reach higher. Had to get_ out.

_Potter’s hand reached out before him. He’d a broom. A broom when Draco was climbing. Was this revenge? Would Potter take Draco’s hand, only to drop him into the maelstrom?_

_Draco pulled out his wand, his face twisting with fear and anger. How dare Potter manipulate him like that? He couldn’t let the boy he’d been sent to capture go, especially not with Crabbe’s idiotic—_

Draco spat out the first curse that came to mind, _followed_ by a stunner. Let Potter _hurt._

Anxiety turned to anger, roiling around with frantic thoughts of the Battle. He’d be safe in the Forbidden Forest. Safe with others just like him.

Draco ran. How often he found himself running when Potter was involved. _Strategic retreat. Cunning getaway to survive another day to plot revenge._ But no. Draco had always known he was a coward. They weren’t celebrated as heroes like Potter and his lot, but they survived. 

Draco would go to the forest. He told himself to keep going, to _find_ the others. Safety in numbers and all. Even as he tripped on the rubble that still littered the grounds farther from the castle, even as the thick mist that enveloped the forest brought on terror like he’d never known. 

Choking back his feeling, Draco twisted his lips into a snarl. He would be strong. He’d win back his father’s place—he’d make it. Whether the Dark Lord had fallen or not, the Death Eaters remained. Whoever was in charge might have even left someone to collect Draco.

Draco hexed something looming in front of him. The hex rebounded off a tree. But the feeling of being surrounded, being trapped, didn’t fade.  
.  
.  
.  
He didn’t quite know how he made it up the tree. Or how Zabini and Nott had found him. Usually, he was left alone, even if he _did_ ignore his scheduled cleanup duties. But there they were, talking in low voices at the foot of Draco’s tree. 

An owl hooted.

Ah. So that was how they found him. Draco glared at Gelert. The nerve of his owl, to betray him!

“If you’re quite done.” Zabini called dryly. “Come down and have some dinner. Potter’s not dead. He’s saying he hexed himself, you know.” Amusement colored his words, making it all sound like a joke.

Draco’s fury had him jumping out of the tree, _Aresto Momentum_ on his tongue and saving him the trouble of a broken leg. He landed a lot more gracefully than Potter ever had, but that was dance and aerobics training for you. “You!”

Zabini held his ground, but Nott backed up.

“How dare you?!” 

Zabini’s lips quirked. 

“It’s not funny!” Draco screamed. “It’s my _life_ you’re going on about, you prat!” 

“No.” Zabini disagreed. “Not your life, but Potter’s behavior. Rather more idiotic than usual, but I expect chronic brain damage after exposure to…” he trailed off, finally finding his sense of self-preservation. 

“Er, Malfoy.” Nott said carefully. “Parkinson has organized this group-thing in the evenings. She says all the prefects have to come.”

Draco spat. “I’m not—”

“Of course you aren’t.” Zabini drawled. “Shirk the title whenever it’s convenient for you. It’s not like you have to come to _every_ meeting. A token appearance…once a week, we’ll say, should suffice.” 

Nott coughed, ignoring Zabini. “Your pretense and wellness is admirably persistent, but let’s call it enough, shall we? You ought to just—”

“Tough it up and come back inside. Gelert’s sleep schedule has been disturbed enough with you coming at all hours.” Zabini cut in, one delicately penciled eyebrow raised.

So Draco went, chin held high after owl feathers cuffed his cheek. If Gelert wanted in…well. He could do that.

* * *

“Thank you for joining me.” Draco said stiffly.

“It’s my pleasure.” Pansy replied. “With this, we should have our owls back to regular strength in no time. They’ll lift these batons you spelled to get heavier the farther they fly…?”

“Up to a point.” Draco allowed a note of pride to go into his voice.

“How quaint. They can practice a few repetitions for a while every day for the time being. Once they’ve got their strength up, they’ll start delivering notes, then parcels, into the Great Hall.” She paused, watching the owls practice.

One of the owls soared to take a baton straight away.

“You’ll need to come to breakfast, Draco, so Gelert will have a familiar face to deliver to.” She added, as if it was an unimportant afterthought.

Draco wasn’t fooled. He looked at her sharply and grimaced; the thought of all those people made Draco shudder. A large gathering of people who hated Slytherins, blamed them for the dead…all those empty chairs. 

“No. Gelert can deliver to…er, Slughorn.” 

Gelert nipped at Draco’s fingers.

“Ow! Gelert!”

* * *

“He’s had some sort of break down.” Pansy gushed .

“He’s finally acting like his normal Gryffindor self…yelling and everything. Honestly, it took him long enough. That moody, detached, not-interested-in-anything Potter replacement was a bore.” Zabini agreed.

Draco smiled with satisfaction. “I always knew Potter couldn’t walk out of the war without being damaged.” Draco privately congratulated himself, but outwardly only allowed a tiny smile. At least he was doing better than _Potter._

There were muted notes of agreement all across the common room. The younger Slytherins ignored the conversation altogether, barely understanding the trials they’d (mostly) missed out on. 

Draco cheerfully straightened his robe and prepared to go down to breakfast. He’d stay until just after mail…then he could go back up, and finish his meal in peace.

For Gelert.

* * *

(end)


End file.
